001. My Grandpa is a very nice man.

I was four years old, sitting proud in a chair too big for me, my legs dangling over the edge. We were in a room full of many people I didn’t know. Everyone was looking at my grandpa. Most of the room was laughing. I was not.

My Grandpa was laughing though, the kind of laughter that made his face light up, and then made your face light up, too. He was laughing along with his friends. But I could not understand why. It was Grandpa’s retirement celebration and his friends and colleagues were telling stories. My grandpa loved to tell stories too, especially the ones that made me laugh. These stories his friends told were making my grandpa laugh, and everyone else in the room. But not me. I couldn’t tell you the specifics of the stories, but I remember I did not think they were funny. They were making fun of my grandpa. Which meant they clearly did not know him. 

This was not the grandpa I knew. Not the man that dropped everything just to hang out with his grandchild. Who always said yes. Who held my hand when we went for walks and moved slowly at my pace. Who told me jokes I didn’t get but I laughed anyway. The kind of man who made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered to him in his world. This was the grandpa I knew. Those people with their mean stories clearly didn’t know him well at all.

I was not a confident child, or a defiant one. But the more stories I heard, the more agitated I became. I needed to set the record straight. 

I got up off my chair, walked to the front of the room and said in the strongest voice my small body could muster,

“My grandpa is a very nice man.”

And then I sat back down.

002. The Treehouse

When I was young, maybe four or five, my grandpa announced he was going to build me a treehouse in the oak tree behind his house. I remember the smile on his face, like a child with a big idea. I don’t know if this fulfilled a childhood dream of his, or maybe a parenting dream he never got around to completing. Raising three kids and working full time as a superintendent of schools didn’t allow for a lot of freetime for building projects. I also wondered if he wanted to make a place at his house just for me, so that I always knew, even when we lived states apart, that I always had a home where he was. 

Grandpa promised me that afternoon that if I took a nap, I would wake up to a house in the tree. I looked at the stacks of lumber and boxes of nails. I looked at the giant tree that stretched so high I could not see the top. And then I looked at the excited grin on my grandpa’s face. I’m not certain I even knew what a treehouse was. But I believed in my grandpa and I believed in enchantment. And so I slept. 

I awoke to a castle in the sky. 

My grandpa guided me up the tree, proud to give me the first tour. A rope ladder led me to the first large branch split. A strip of wood placed between two limbs was my railing. Grandpa stood guard in the elbow of the branches while I made the two rung climb to survey the new space. Boards laid four feet by four feet were my floor. A few more stacked boards were the walls. The canopy of leaves and blue sky beyond was my ceiling. I was home, just like he promised.

Every summer, after we made the long drive from Kansas to Wisconsin, as soon as we pulled into the gravel driveway of my grandparents bungalow, gave a round of extra big hugs, I would run to the base of the tree and make my way up. I read books for hours in those branches. I brought snacks up, imagined big adventures, looked beyond the canopy to see how far my view would stretch. 

When we were home, I would sit on the stool in our kitchen, wind the curly telephone cord around my finger while I asked my grandpa about the treehouse. He would tell me what squirrels he had to scare out and which boards needed to be repaired. He wanted me to know he was taking care of my home until he could welcome me back. 

003. His Smile

I loved my grandpa’s smile, wide across his face, honest, contagious. He looked young when he would smile, as if you could see the boy that ran around his grandparents farm, the one who helped his dad on the train tracks, who charmed my grandma all those years ago on their collegiate campus, who wrapped me in a hug every time we would reunite. In fact, I don’t remember my grandpa not smiling. In the forty years I knew my grandfather, he never changed much for me. To me, his first granddaughter (and I might argue his favorite oldest granddaughter), Gramps was always warm and funny and kind as the smile on his face when he greeted me. 

004. Yes to Games

Grandpa never said no to a game. He would play endless rounds of Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders and War. On days when I knew my grandparents were coming for a visit, I would lay out the first game I wanted to play when he came home. I would race home from school, rush into his arms for a hug, and then invite him to the floor for the first round of games. I never doubted he would say yes. As a parent myself, who now thoroughly dreads playing those games, I can see why having a grandparent who always said yes to games was such a joy to me, and probably to my parents, too.

When I got a little older, grandpa taught me to play cribbage. This was a game I would listen to the adults play many late nights in our cabin while I was tucked into bed. “Fifteen Two, Fifteen Four and The Rest Don’t Score” was a refrain I had memorized before I knew what it meant. So when he taught me the game, I knew it was something special. It was much like the way he taught me to fish, with patience and simple lessons. When I needed a refresher each time we would play again, he would tell me the rules again just like he did the first time. I can still hear his teeth whistle in surprise when I would land a good hand and he would have to help me count. It was rare I would beat him but when I did, he would pretend to be upset but I saw pride on his face. Like fishing, we were enjoying something he loved. 

As I look back he approached the time spent doing the thing he loved, fishing or cribbage, with the same joy and presence as he did doing the thing I loved, playing simple games. It was the time that mattered. 

005. Sleep Tight

Grandpa had a lot of sayings we loved. They were like songs we all knew the words to.

When it was time to go he would say “Put your shoes on Lucy, don’t you know you’re in the city.”

“Did you step on a frog?” was a way of asking if someone passed gas.

But my favorite one was our bedtime routine. 

Each night, without fail, when he would tuck me into bed, he would say to me “Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite, and if they do…” and he would pause because he knew I would be able to finish that story “bite ‘em back,” I’d say. And then I’d wait with anticipatory giggles for him to snap like a little bug. 

I always thought this would be something I would carry over into my parenting but I haven’t. I think some songs are meant to be saved just for the people that sang them to us first. 

006. Kittie Cocktail

5:00 was cocktail hour in my grandpa’s house since I can remember. In the summer he made Gin and Tonics, or GNTs which is what I knew them as before I knew what the letters stood for. I smell the squeeze of lime and the piney gin, hear the bubble of tonic water and the clink of ice and I think of summer’s with my Grandpa. 

But for me, he always made a Kittie Cocktail. I have since learned these are actually called Kiddie Cocktails, which of course makes more sense, but that is not at all how I ever knew them to be so they will henceforth be called Kittie cocktails. Grandpa would fill up my glass with seven up and cherry juice and then he’d add a bunch of maraschino cherries. I didn’t like to eat the cherries so I’d always share them with my siblings, but I wouldn’t let him skip that part. He could have handed me a can of pop or opened a juice box. I liked that he cared enough to invite me into his own ritual and topped it off with a garnish. 

007. Canoe Trip

As kids, we would visit my grandparents every summer for Cousin Camp. But as I got older and my summer schedule conflicted with the visits, my grandparents let me come one summer just me. This was a treat. All the attention on me. They made me my favorite meals and let me sit uninterrupted for hours in the treehouse reading books.

Mid-week we took a couple of days to visit their friends cabin in the chain of lakes of northern Wisconsin. I’m not sure if this was upon my request or his idea, but one afternoon my grandpa decided he would take me on a canoe trip. A big boat dropped us off at the mouth of a river and then my grandma met us partway down as the river met a lake. I sat in front and he in back. This was ideal for me because it meant he could take the responsibility of steering while I could get the best views. I spent most of the trip pointing out pretty cabins I liked, interesting birds, a turtle sleeping on the rock. And all the way my grandpa grunted and groaned behind me. 

When we reached our destination and were drying off on the shore, my grandma asked how we liked it. I told her how beautiful and peaceful it was. And my grandpa said “It was nice. I don’t think I’ll be doing that again.”

My grandfather, a retired Navy seamen who enlisted weeks after his high school graduation in 1944 to fight towards the end of World War II, spent his last day guiding a boat through water all so I could enjoy the view. True sacrifice. 

008. A Nightcap

My grandparents spent their winters in a motor home parked at a KOA in San Antonio Texas. I loved going for a visit as kids because it meant sun and fun. But as an adult I especially loved going because they would take me to the River Walk and we would sit looking at the water with a big margarita in front of us snacking on chips and salsa. 

One spring break during college, on our way to party in South Padre Beaches with the other spring breakers, my girlfriends and I stopped first at my grandparents campground in San Antonio. Grandpa took us down to the River Walk just like we always do, sipping on margaritas until the sun went down and the Christmas lights dangling from the big oak trees over the water started to twinkle. As we made our way back home, grandpa said “now girls, what next? Can I mix you up a nightcap?” It might have been a kind gesture and we declined because we were tired. But to this day we still laugh about that night my grandpa was willing to stay up late and continue the party. 

009. Thelma and Louise

“Alright I think it’s time to get back on the road,” my grandpa told me as soon as we finished up our breakfast of eggs over-easy and biscuits and gravy, which was not as good as my grandma makes it but we both still cleaned our plates. “Now before we go we have to get one of those sticky buns to take with us. Your grandma always has that to snack on while we drive.”

I smiled and agreed to tuck the sticky bun in my purse just like grandma does as I crawled in the passenger seat of my grandpa’s Dodge Ram truck. I was 23 and my grandpa and I were venturing on a two day 900 mile road trip towards my grandma’s home town of Freedom, OK. My grandma had flown down earlier for her brother’s funeral and I was going to be my Grandpa’s co-pilot. My grandparents have made this same trip hundreds of times in their 50 plus years since moving to Wisconsin away from my grandma’s family in the panhandle sand plains of Oklahoma. I know they have every rest stop mapped out, which McDonalds they go to for lunch, what hotels they like to stay in, and what they like to bring with them for snacking. 

I could tell my grandpa was a little thrown by not having his usual co-pilot. You spend more than 50 years with someone and you develop a routine together. I wanted to make him comfortable so I played grandma’s roll as best I could, the Louise to his Thelma. Part of this meant listening to the music he chose.

“Now as soon as we cross the border into Missouri that’s when we start listening to the good music.”

“The good music? What do you mean by that?”

He gestured to the console where he keeps his cassette tapes. I marveled that he still had a car to play these old cassettes. “Looked for the one that says Texas Cowboys. Yeah, there it is that’s the one. Put that one in.”

I pulled out the cassette, blew some dust off the top, and slipped it into the cartridge. As soon as the tape started turning, the crackly sounds of a slide guitar started up. The croony voice of Ernest Tubb singing “Waltz acoss Texas” echoed through the speakers. I grinned. My grandpa did, too. 

“Remember when you would try to teach me to two-step, Grampa?” I asked him, thinking of all those rodeo parties we would go to every summer when visiting my grandma’s family. I remembered how he would take a break frmo dancing with my Grandma and pull me out on the floor. His hands felt soft in mine as he guided me around the floor. He tried to count for me and still I stepped on his feet countless times.

“I sure do. You were never very good at that from what I remembered.” He looked over at me with a teasing grin on his face. Always smiling, that man.

“No, probably not. Not like you and Gramma.”

“No, not like me and grandma. Gramma’s a good dancer, she is.” Then we went back to listening to the music, both of us probably thinking about dancing and Gramma. 

We didn’t talk much on that trip. We let the music speak for us. I will always think of him when I hear those songs like “Yellow Rose of Texas” or “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” I will think of him and that car ride and the way we traveled side by side enjoying the company of each other.

010. Seeing Me

As grandpa aged, his eye sight faded. In his last year’s he couldn’t see to drive or play games or fish. But he could hear well. And, while his memory started to fade, it was telling stories he loved the best. 

When I would come to visit, I would sit at his feet, get as close as I could, not because he needed to hear me but because I think it helped him see me better. And then we would take turns telling stories. I would ask him about the ones I remembered, the ones I knew by heart, because I never tired of hearing him tell them. Stories matter to me. It’s how I connect. And all I wanted in the last days of time with my grandpa was to connect with him like I always did.

On one visit we got to talking about the treehouse he built for me. 

“You know what I remember, Rachel, was how you would go up in that tree and read. You would just read and read and I would watch you from way down here in my chair on the porch and just wonder what you were reading about. You really liked to read, didn’t you?”

I smiled and choked back tears and told him I did, I still love to read. 

Ever since I was young I felt like I watched my grandpa, wanted to know him more, know what mattered to him, wanted others to see how great he was. It never occurred to me that he, too, wanted to know me. That’s why he shared his life with me. That’s why he stayed fully present in our short time together. He wanted to see how I saw the world, too.

In the end, I learned even when his vision weakened, my grandpa could see me. 

That is what makes a very nice man a very great one.

Love you, Gramps.

I didn’t want to mother today. 

I didn’t want to be turned away at the preschool door because of another Covid cancelation, when I could have had four delicious hours of quiet all to myself. 

I didn’t want to drown my sorrows at the neighborhood coffee shop with an overpriced latte for me and crumbling muffin for him, when I could have been sipping from my favorite mug on my cozy couch with the just right banana bread I made, alone. 

I didn’t want to walk to the beach, knowing the beach means dirty feet and sticky wet clothing and expert level toddler negotiations upon the time of returning home, when I could have spent the morning making a mess of a rough draft and negotiating with proper word choice. 

I didn’t want to listen to the constant refrain of a three year old’s voice bombarding me with his stories, when I could have been writing my own. 

I didn’t want to battle the nagging guilt of a mother with dreams, when I could–should–be feeling grateful.

I just didn’t want to mother today.

I also didn’t want to be sitting on the shore under a blue bird sky dazzled by the sunshine dancing on the ripples he made with every rock tossed and skipped,

but here I am.

I didn’t want to feel the cool breeze bringing in reminders of apple blossoms and lilacs and violets like a song, calling me to notice,

but here I am.

I didn’t want to be surprised at the way he can write his own name in the sand.

I didn’t want to marvel at the way his hair curls around his cheeks.

I didn’t want to catch the contagious giggle that erupts when toes first feel the icy waters of a spring lake. 

I didn’t want to melt all the way into the sand when he took my hand and told me he missed his friends but he liked being with me best,

but here I am.

I didn’t want any of these things today because I thought it would mean I must trade one for the other—

mother instead of create, mother instead of peace, mother instead of dream,

but here I am.

Some days I don’t want to mother. Some days I just want to write.

And some days, most days, the best days, I get to do both,

right here where I am.

Image created by @phoenixfeatherscalligraphy for C+C, 2022

This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series "Still Motherhood.”
PS. For more words on motherhood and other things I do and like, and don’t like sometimes, be sure to sign up for my Raise & Shine Letter! There’s always a good story or two, probably something about Taylor Swift, and lots of artfully curated GIFs.

SHE’S HERE! A project we’ve dreamed of since we moved in is completed and ready to show off her stuff! And, honestly, she’s even prettier than I could have imagined.

When we first fell in love with this home five years ago, it was the upstairs that caught our eye. The big family room with its endless open window was an unusual find in this part of the city. Most layouts of homes our size have bedrooms on the main level and then use the basement level for their family room. But this girl was different. I think that’s why we loved her. Having a shared space on the main level has been wonderful to our family. But it meant that the two kid bedrooms/guest bedrooms were shoved to the basement. This also meant that the creepy part with the ugly washer/dryer, unfinished storage spaces, and very dingy/cobwebby/who-knows-what-else-y exposed ceiling was just part of the aesthetic. I mean, it’s a basement. It was just gonna be ugly, right? We had other spaces to enjoy.

But I just could never let that go. I knew we would never want to fully finish the basement. But from the moment I saw that space I started dreaming of what she could be. A home should make you feel warm and welcome, even the spaces that we shove to the basement, literally. I tried adding in mood lighting and pretty rugs, hung curtains to cover storage, but it just wasn’t quite right. Then as the kids grew, we started imagining adding in a second bathroom to the space. Five people in one bathroom (and then add a bunch more when guests arrive) was no longer sustainable for our 1940s closet bathroom. Also, with both kid bedrooms downstairs, and the kids growing up and wanting more space of their own, I wanted to create a place in our home that felt cozy yet fun for kids.

The thing about dreaming is it opens your eyes to potential. If we can make this dream a reality, what else is possible? I don’t know how to say this without making you roll your eyes so I’m just going to say it and accept the side eye—what started as a sink and a toilet and a shower became an entirely new outlook on our home. Its just walls and appliances and paint (and very very pretty tile I could not get out of my mind when I saw it.) But what it feels like to us is imagined potential brought to life.

In my newsletter last month (which you should be reading and if not get on that!) I talked about the joys in the in between. We loved the process of the becoming. But seeing the final product I’m realizing the in-betweens were only a joy because we believed in the after. From the very beginning we saw an ugly space and believed she could be more. We didn’t know when or how long it would take (or how much money we would have to save, yikes.) But we knew one day she would be exactly what we needed her to be.

Obvi you knew I couldn’t just show you some pretty pictures and NOT find a deep life lesson. This is who I am.

Ok, so enough about the Life Lessons From Rachel, let’s get to the good stuff!

First this is what we started with…

This was the vision board…

This was part of the process…

AND HERE IS THE FINAL REVEAL!!!!

First of all, I cannot move further without mentioning our AMAZING contractor Lance and his team from Cultivate Construction. If you are local, you must consider his team for your next project. Hands down best decision we ever made. He was professional, respectful, careful, attentive, but not annoying or condescending. Can’t wait to save more money so we can work with him again.

Now the fun stuff. My favorite parts are the tile, because HELLO! A thing of beauty. Also I love the wood shelf above the sink, mostly because I envisioned it and it came together just as I hoped it would. That is a satisfying feeling. Also the final week of the project I was driving down my alley and saw a beautiful console table left for trash dump. Come to find out it is a record player speaker system from the 1960s! I don’t know if it works anymore but for now it works beautiful in the mid century modern hang out of our basement. I’m actually worried it’s too cool for our kids.

Also I super love how the “unfinished” part of the basement turned out. Originally we wanted white for the ceiling but it was going to be incredibly challenging to cover up the stain in the wood beams. Our contractor suggested black and we are so pleased with the final product. The ceiling is busy with pipes and cords etc. But now it basically disappears. With new lighting (GOODBYE FLORESCENT BULBS!) the black does not make the space dark as I worried. Against the pop of white walls it just works. We repainted the floors as well and originally planned on turning it back to the light gray that it was when we moved in. When I pulled out a nearly full can of paint labeled “basement floor” I assumed that was the right color. After applying it, we discovered it was a dark navy blue. In the end, though, it was a good mistake. We love it. We might do wood laminate on the floor one day but for now, it works so well for our lifestyle. Fresh paint is an amazing tool.

One day I’ll go back and link up everything we used. But if you have any questions, shoot me an email and I’d be happy to share! It will make me feel like the DIY influencer that I am not!

tl;dr Believe in the after, imagine potential, bring it to life one small dream at a time. I should make that into a cat poster.